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Sinclair stilled against the woman's throat, her hair casting a shadow over them. A cold breath tickled his nose, quickly eased by her hand over his folded talon.
Gently, she guided him to the part under her breast. Sinclair's claws grazed scale, until they met bone.
“Feel that, Sinclair?” She whispered, tilting her head. The jade bangles dangling from her horn clink in response.
Feel.
Sinclair is a beast of the You branch, pastimes lacking blood spilt are deemed inadequate to him. Every act held no further bidding—never did he let a moment, nor a glance sink into his feathers.
Feeling was human, and he was not.
He is devoid of his ability to connect. Long is the child he used to be, beating against his shell. The flame on his blades roared with one purpose; to cut down those who dare stand in his holder's way—
—So why must he entertain this fruitless dream?
But for a second, he spared himself just a moment. He curled his talon along the marrow, and somehow, a semblance of a frown began to form on his lips. They're damaged.
Though his view was curtained, deep down he felt she had smiled.